Four Seasons - the re-release
by TAFKA
Summary: Andrea! Andrea! Andrea! This one's for all the fans of The Wordless One. Come bow at the shrine. Better yet, read the fic. You may find it interesting to note that this fic was written and originally posted approximately one year ago.


Four Seasons  
  
(The Re-releasing)  
  
  
My apologies to Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis for borrowing your characters without   
  
permission. Please don't sue me, I'm a poor starving artist and I have no money. Sue my progeny   
  
instead.  
  
  
This is based on a true story [1]…  
  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
'It hasn't happened for a year now' Andrea mused as she sculpted in her dark bedroom. 'I'm finally   
  
controlling it. No drugs, no therapy, just willpower.'  
  
Andrea stood back from her sculpture and contemplated it with a sense of self-satisfaction. Not that her   
  
sculpture wasn't morbid. She had found herself using art as therapy since she was diagnosed three   
  
years ago. Artistic relief. Andrea was grateful for her talent, even if it was minimal. She sighed and   
  
contemplated the inner symbolism of her creative outlet.  
  
It was growing dark outside, and with it, her high spirits evaporated. She went into her numb state of   
  
semi-consciousness. Andrea relished these moments, for they exposed a sense of awareness within   
  
herself that she rarely shared with anyone. Numb, that was the way to be. How did that song go? She   
  
lightly sung to herself the only words she knew of it that mattered.  
  
'I've become comfortably numb.'  
  
Those mellow words, though probably drug induced, reflected her present emotive response indeed.   
  
They struck the right chord within her, making her feel like she was in a state of bliss.  
  
  
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
Andrea could usually sense her emotive fluxes by the song phrase that repeated in her mind, if not by   
  
the feeling itself. She had grown accustomed to these songs, and they nearly always pre-staged the new   
  
phase. For the 'happy' phase, it was 'Learning to Fly' by Pink Floyd, for the sad phase, it was 'Talk   
  
Show Host' by Radiohead, and for the angry phase it was '4pm' by the Clouds [2]. Andrea didn't   
  
even know where she'd picked up that Clouds song from, or why it had become her anthem for anger,   
  
considering the mellow beat. Maybe the words had more symbolism than she realised. Maybe it was   
  
just that the phrase 'blood on my hands' kept popping up. She didn't know. Sometimes just hearing   
  
the songs would trigger a reaction, so she avoided the radio at all costs.   
  
  
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
Andrea felt that she was excessively susceptible to episodes of blatant self-exhibitionism. In reality, she   
  
was quite often oblivious to things such as semi-nudity. Tonight, as she frequently did, she wandered   
  
about the dingy apartment in a threadbare pair of underpants and a skimpy singlet-top. Thus attired, she   
  
appeared voluptuous, and exuded gratuitous sex appeal.  
  
Insomnia came, and with it an all night bout of artistic fervor - an ill-fated attempt to ward off 'the   
  
change'. She battled silently with her inner demons during the hours of darkness. She began to sing   
  
quietly to herself.  
  
'I'm ready/ I'm ready/ I'm ready/ I'm ready'   
  
Andrea felt a strange moistness in her eyes. She didn't cry often, and feared it when she did. It was a   
  
blatant lack of self-control.   
  
She felt herself curling up into a tight ball.   
  
She knew that she was angry about her lack of control, and that the depression was feeding off the   
  
negativity.  
  
'Oh shit' she sobbed, knowing what was to come.   
  
Andrea opened her door, and ran sobbing uncontrollably into the bathroom. She sat on the cold tiles,   
  
sobbing until she felt sick. She reached over to the toilet, and lifted the seat. Once she had voided the   
  
contents of her stomach, she felt marginally better.   
  
She crept back into her bedroom for a few hours of precious sleep. It was almost dawn.  
  
  
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
When Andrea awoke, she felt an unusual combination of depression and anger. She decided to dress in   
  
something no one at Lawndale High had ever seen her wear before. She pulled on a black, Indian,   
  
fringed skirt with bells on the corded ties; a velvety-grey, satin and lace corset; and a pair of knee-high   
  
fish-net stockings. She pulled on a pair of ankle-high, charcoal doc martens, and tied the cherry laces.   
  
Despite her misgivings, she decided to go to school.  
  
  
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
Five minutes after she arrived, Andrea knew it was a mistake.  
  
  
People ignoring her she could handle. But when she felt like she did, it didn't seem to matter. It seemed   
  
to Andrea that people were going out of their way to be downright nasty to her. That Clouds song   
  
started playing in her head, and she started singing to herself. People stared at her, but she seemed   
  
oblivious.  
  
'I'm a bitter twisted soul / with my hands behind my back I feel my shiny silver blaze / love on my   
  
right hand / hate on my left hand/ god at my command / but they don't understand / I've got blood on   
  
my hands / so much blood on my hands / I've got your blood on my hands / All the work I try to do /   
  
is in essence what the good book says / its true / I say to you / Let the judgement begin / punish them   
  
for their sins / let the sun shine in / good over evil / win or win / cause I've got blood on my hands / so   
  
much blood on my hands / I've got your blood on my hands / I've got blood on my hands / so much   
  
blood on my hands / I've got your blood on my hands / its four in the afternoon / and you're looking   
  
like a whore / made up in blue / you're going to learn/ see the look in my eyes / better not start to cry /   
  
you know the reason why / you're going to have to die / cause I've got your blood on my hands / I've   
  
got blood on my hands / so much blood on my hands / I've got your blood on my hands / I've got   
  
your blood on my hands / I've got blood on my hands / so much blood on my hands / I've got your   
  
blood on my hands / I've got your blood on my hands / I need your blood on my hands'  
  
  
That snobby, brunette, fashion club 'bitch' whirled around, hearing her sing.  
  
'Are you, like, calling me a slut?' she snarled.  
  
Andrea's eyes glazed over. She continued singing the song from the beginning, oblivious to Sandi.  
  
  
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
Andrea headed towards the toilets. She really needed a smoke. She was not entirely happy with the   
  
situation. Complacent with it - yes - but mainly unwilling to make a fuss over what was obviously a   
  
dangerously depressive episode. She wanted control it, to flow with it. She didn't want this to be a   
  
repeat of last year, when she quite literally had a berserk episode. She couldn't remember anything prior   
  
to the memory of a screaming jock she had apparently stuffed into his own locker. She remembered the   
  
gist of the insult that had sent her spiraling into the blood-rage. He had called her a psycho-bitch - or   
  
some such thing. Not that that was particularly unusual - he had just picked the wrong time to say it. As   
  
far as she knew, he was still in psychiatric care.   
  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
She sneered, feeling the bloodlust rising. It was his own bloody fault for taunting her - and no one had   
  
bothered trying to provoke her since.  
  
She walked into the toilets and into her favourite stall - the one farthest from the door. She didn't bother   
  
locking it, in her haste to remove her cigarettes from her bag. She lit up and took a drag, still singing to   
  
herself. She heard the outer door open.  
  
  
'its four in the afternoon / and you're looking like a whore / made up in blue / you're going to learn/ see   
  
the look in my eyes / better not start to cry / you know the reason why / you're going to have to die /   
  
cause I've got your blood on my hands / I've got blood on my hands / so much blood on my hands /   
  
I've got your blood on my hands / I've got your blood on my hands' Andrea sang.  
  
She heard a hissing intake of breath.  
  
  
'Are you, like, still on my case, bitch?'  
  
Andrea's blood boiled. She had just plummeted into the 'angry' stage, and the adrenaline was kicking   
  
in. She kicked open the stall door, slamming it backwards on its hinges and snapping the low-grade   
  
alloy in the process. Sandi shuddered, remembering why Andrea was called the 'psycho-bitch'. She   
  
rallied her egotism.  
  
'What do you wanna make of it!?' Andrea thundered.  
  
Sandi stood at the basin, with a snide look on her face.  
  
Andrea glowered. 'Well?'  
  
Sandi looked Andrea up and down contemptuously, then spat on her.  
  
'You are such a geek, goth chick.'  
  
Andrea felt the rage boil within her. No longer in control of her body, she wrestled Sandi - pinning her   
  
on the tiles.  
  
'Apologise, bitch!' she spat.  
  
'Fuck off!' Sandi replied indignantly.  
  
Andrea wrenched her by the shoulders and began slamming her head into the floor. She paused,   
  
holding Sandi's head off the floor by the shoulders.  
  
'Apologise!' she screeched.  
  
'Go to hell, you hoe!' Sandi hissed.  
  
Andrea began pummeling Sandi's head into the floor again.  
  
'Give in yet, bitch? You going to apologise?'  
  
By this time, the brawlers had quite a crowd around them. Sandi was getting quite groggy.  
  
She glared maliciously at Andrea.  
  
Jane and Daria were in the crowd, smirking at the unfolding carnage.  
  
'Five bucks says Sandi ends up with at least five stitches in her head from this, if not becoming   
  
comatose.' Daria said wryly.  
  
'Ten says Andrea ends up with a month's detention at least, if not a criminal record.' Jane replied with   
  
a wicked smile.  
  
They both laughed as Andrea slammed Sandi's head, in another round of tile-cracking violence.  
  
The crowd cheered Andrea on. Apparently, Sandi had few supporters there.  
  
Ms Barch walked in.  
  
'Give the male loving scum hell, Andrea!' she muttered.  
  
Andrea continued 'bashing' some sense into Sandi.  
  
Sandi looked up at her fearfully.  
  
'I'm sorry, okay.' Sandi whimpered.  
  
Andrea continued pummeling her head into the ground.  
  
'I mean it. I'm sorry Andrea.'   
  
Andrea's eyes glazed. She dropped Sandi with a resounding thud. Sandi was sprawled out, cataleptic.   
  
  
Andrea's rage had dissipated. She stared at Sandi in shock.  
  
'Oh my…'  
  
She started sobbing uncontrollably.  
  
Ms Barch gestured to Tiffany.  
  
'Have you got a phone?'  
  
'Y…yes.'  
  
'Call 911'  
  
She walked over to Andrea.  
  
'She'll be okay. Don't worry, I'll take care of you.'  
  
'I…I killed her…' Andrea blurted.  
  
Ms Barch put her arms around Andrea.  
  
'She'll be okay. Besides, You did what everyone in this school has been dying to do to her for ages.'  
  
'What's that.'  
  
'Knock some sense into her.' Ms Barch replied with a smirk.  
  
Andrea allowed herself a weak smile.  
  
'She'll be okay?'  
  
'Sure. Even if she's brain-damaged, she'll be better off.'  
  
Andrea chuckled feebly.  
  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
  
In her sanctuary - her dark, mysterious bedroom - Andrea was bemused.  
  
Her own memory failed her considerably on the details of that day, except for her seeing Sandi   
  
prostrate, on the tiles. She remembered little else, apart from the phrase 'its four in the afternoon / and   
  
you're looking like a whore / made up in blue / you're going to learn'.  
  
  
She started singing it to herself…  
  
  
  
---------------------------------------  
  
The Endnotes   
  
  
The Boring Bits Of Info That Only Die-Hard Fanfic Readers Will Read:  
  
[1] The major details - emotions, the head smashing, etc are true   
  
- while the setting has been modified.   
  
[2] Okay, okay - so I love Australian music. So what, I've given you the gist of the songs I thought   
  
needed clarification. The title refers to a Crowded House song called 'Four Seasons in one Day' (It's   
  
about Melbourne weather - an Aussie in-joke)  
  
  
Why I decided to re-release this fic:  
  
Okay, I'm going to be totally honest here. I didn't like it as a part one, to be continued. It stands alone.   
  
It's short, sour and to the point. It also leaves much to be desired in the metafic style, but considering it   
  
was done in 45 minutes, I'm fairly happy with it. And no, dammit, I don't want to change any of the   
  
text.   
  
I also wanted to see how many Andrea fans would lynch me for doing this. Hey, be happy, it's an   
  
Andrea-centric fic (she also happens to be my favourite character - may we all worship the wordless   
  
one)   
  
Bet you were all expecting something long winded and boring. Sorry to disappoint you.  
  
  
The Thanks Part & Dedications:  
  
This is dedicated to my two beautiful sisters, Mook and Annie. Thanks for all of your support and   
  
patience with my fanfics. You are both wonderful!  
  
And thanks to Peter Guerin for writing 'Triumph of the Retart' which was my incentive and inspiration.   
  
Without you, I would not have had the courage to write this. Blessed be, Peter.  
  
Also, thanks to Canadibrit. May you be recoginised for your positive influence.   
  
Thanks to the former proprietors of 'Lawndale Commons', for their wonderful former site; to 'Outpost   
  
Daria', for providing me with my first fanfics; and to 'Naomi', of the 'Poor Pathetic Daria Page', for   
  
being the first to post my first attempts at fanfiction. (may nobody ever find out who I really am! ) You   
  
have all been wonderfully inspirational. May you all have wonderful lives!  
  
If you have any comments about my fanfics, or want to know what my dragon form is, mail me at   
  
tafka_the_dragon@hotmail.com   
  
  
TAFKA the Dragon   
  
(theartistformerlyknownas)  
  



End file.
